


Waterproof

by prompt_fills



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Getting Back Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magical Realism, Selkies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-12
Updated: 2016-10-12
Packaged: 2018-08-22 02:54:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8269963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prompt_fills/pseuds/prompt_fills
Summary: The inland is dry and quiet.Cristiano copes with it better than he did when he first came to Madrid but today is one of those days when every breath he takes is a living hell. The air burns in his lungs as he inhales, there is no position that doesn’t hurt shifting into and there is no relief. AKA The one where Cristiano is a selkie.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yeats](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeats/gifts).



The inland is dry and quiet.

Cristiano copes with it better than he did when he first came to Madrid but today is one of those days when every breath he takes is a living hell. The air burns in his lungs as he inhales, there is no position that doesn’t hurt shifting into and there is no relief.

He’s running a fever which he can’t let anyone know about because they wouldn’t be able to bring it down, no matter how many medical checks they’d run or how many different pills they might try forcing down his throat.

The one and only thing that would help him is over three hundred kilometres away, hopelessly out of reach. It only makes him more restless.

They have a home match against Warsaw in a couple of days and they’re all staying together at the centre. Cristiano wishes he could be home instead, out of reach of the curious, worried glances he’s been receiving during the team dinner and which led him to decline the offer to join them for the movie night.

The facility bedrooms are deserted. Cristiano finds the room he’s sharing with Marcelo, slots in his keycard. He sheds his clothes because they’re too constricting and drags his body under the shower. The water smells awful and doesn’t bring him much relief. He starts overheating the moment he’s out of the shower but he doesn’t want to waste any more water. Wasting water always feels bad, even if it’s of such poor quality.

He lets his eyes fall shut as he leans against the tiles. They feel cool on his skin but they aren’t helping his predicament.

Cristiano paddles to the bedroom, not bothering to towel himself off. He leaves a trail of wet footsteps on the floor where there isn’t any carpet but he’s not worried about that. It’s hot enough that it will dry soon. It’s unfairly hot.

Cristiano kneels down and finds his bag at the bottom of his wardrobe. He fishes out a small plastic bottle with clear liquid which he usually keeps as a last resort. Today has been one hell of a day.

He holds the bottle against the shine of the overhead light, shaking it and watching the water slosh from side to side.

He grabs a clean glass from the bar and opens the bottle. The smell is faint but familiar. With utmost concentration, Cristiano pours the content of the bottle into the glass. His hand is steady, his movements small. He makes the task look like a ritual being performed.

Cristiano waits patiently with his hand above the glass, holding the bottle straight down until the very last drop falls in.

Then he sits cross-legged on the bed, eyes cast on the glass. The mere thought that the self-prescribed band-aid is within an easy reach soothes him. He delays the gratification the glass will bring to him to double the effect.

He stalls too long.

Someone knocks on the door, breaking his fierce focus.

It’s too early for the guys to be back. Maybe they’d sent someone to try to talk Cristiano into joining them for the movie after all. Or perhaps it’s someone from the management. They didn’t get to cover all the points today and there were still a couple of technicalities to be sorted out before the match.

Cristiano slips off the bed and wraps a towel around his waist, wincing.

He throws the door open without much thought. They’re at a secluded place, the security is not in question.

He comes face to face with Ricky and for a second he freezes. He didn’t expect to encounter this particular ghost from his past any time soon. Ricky looks as great as always, his eyes keen and his smile true. It’s been a while since Cristiano has been exposed to the lethal doses and he finds his system isn’t as immune as he’d like. Or perhaps it’s the thirst in him he’s been struggling with for the past few days and that has finally caught up with him today.

While his mind descends into the whirlwind of stray thoughts, memories and feelings, Ricky takes the time to eye him as well.

When the lingering gaze registers with Cristiano, he crosses his arms over his chest and barks out, “No. Bye.”

Cristiano swings the door shut to Ricky’s startled face before he manages to get out a single word in response.

Cristiano’s chest is heaving as if he’d just stepped down from a treadmill after a particularly demanding session, his heart rate is elevated and much to his chagrin, he notices that his hands are shaking.

He staggers back to the bedroom and flops down on the bed.

Ricky knocks again, more urgently. Cristiano ignores it, pressing his face into the pillows.

“Would you let me in?” Ricky’s voice is muffled but as pleasing to his ears as any other time.

Cristiano hates that his voice still has that effect, after everything Ricky has put him through.

He isn’t much surprised when, after several long minutes, he hears the keycard lock click open.

“Marcelo gave me his card,” Ricky says with an apologetic shrug, setting the card on the table near the door.

“Great,” Cristiano says, pulling a face. “The traitor.”

“They said you haven’t been yourself lately.”

Cristiano snorts because it’s quite the opposite. He has a desperate need to simply be _himself_ , just for a little while, just for a moment. He needs to hear the voice of the ocean, feel the waves crash over his body, to emerge in the water and let himself be drifted by the strong tidal pull. Just for a little moment, only to get enough to survive until his next fix. The Valdebebas’ pool does little to ease the urge to go for a real swim.

“So they thought to turn to you?” Cristiano can barely hide the mix of disgust and betrayal in his voice. Today is not the day he can pretend to be civil with Ricky. He’s still bitter and he’ll always be bitter about not being good enough for Ricky.

They might had become something if they weren’t so fucking young and if Ricky wasn’t always disappointed by Cristiano in that quiet way of his. He would never say anything aloud – Cristiano had wished he would, so they could argue about it and clear the air, but Ricky never let himself get railed up – but his sad, accusing eyes said it for him. Cristiano had tried, damn right he’d tried. The saddened gaze never went away. He’d been desperate to keep what he had, holding onto it for longer than he should have, long past the point where what Cristiano was trying to save had no real value anymore.

It’s all water under the bridge now but the way things went down is not something Cristiano is ever going to forget.

They used to be there for each other and Cristiano couldn’t have imagined there will come time when they won’t be like that. How could he when they’ve had the connection since the day they’ve met. The easy friendship before they ever even played together. The absolute understanding that was the one thing most natural to them. Complete harmony, lost forever.

“Hey,” Ricky says. His searching eyes make Cristiano fidget.

“I was just grabbing a shower,” he feels the urge to explain as he tugs the bedcover higher up. It chafes his skin and makes his legs feel as if he’d shoved them into furnace. He feels a bead of sweat on his forehead.

“You didn’t seem quite okay at the team dinner earlier,” Ricky says, cutting straight to the point. When it comes to Ricky, Cristiano never gets away with dodging questions. He’s learned how to keep secrets but not how to lie effectively.

“How would you know?” he grunts. He isn’t interested in Ricky being charitable. He can say his piece and leave Cristiano alone.

If Cristiano finds out whose brilliant idea it was to call Ricky for help, he’ll wreak vengeance.

“The guys called me,” Ricky says. “They put me on the speaker and everyone was talking at once but I got the gist of it, I think.”

“What, they think you can appear and magically make me better?”

Ricky chokes on a laugh. Cristiano has a feeling there is something in particular Ricky finds funny but he can’t figure out what.

“It worked in the past, didn’t it?” Ricky says after a while.

Cristiano blushes, grips the bedcovers and throws them over his head. Maybe the effects won’t be as devastating if he can’t see Ricky. Or maybe he’ll actually boil to his death like this.

Ricky sits down on the bed, pulls the covers off Cristiano’s face. “Don’t,” he says simply.

They are both quiet for a few moments, Cristiano secretly enjoying their proximity.

Ricky always has this calming effect on him. There is an energy around him that makes Cristiano feel more centred. It’s easier to let his guard down and worry less because he knows he’s got his impulses under control. They’re still there, but manageable, like tiny voices at the back of his mind, like little children screaming for ice-cream – only his are demanding that Cristiano gets up and heads straight to the ocean.

In Ricky’s presence, the voices are content and let Cristiano unwind. The ocean doesn’t call when Ricky’s there.

Ricky must have recently washed his hair, the smell of his shampoo lingers and it’s the same fucking scent he’d been using all those years ago. It’s fresh and reminds Cristiano of the ocean. Something twists in the pit of his stomach and he draws himself up on the bed, knees up, leaning back against the headrest.

It used to be so easy to be around Ricky, they slot together and clicked.

Cristiano realizes he’s drifting again and he shakes himself. “Yeah,” he croaks. “It always works.”

“Even now?”

“Not this time, Ricky, not this time. I just need a couple of days,” Cristiano says. He needs a few days, he needs to get the match done with, then he needs to hold up long enough to defeat The Lions and then only three, four more days and he can get away, preferably to the shores east of Deba, where the rocky slopes are steep and the people few.

He’ll be as good as new before the match against Alavés.

“A couple of days,” Cristiano repeats, “then I’ll be fine. Tell the guys you talked some sense into me and see yourself out, please.”

“I can make it better now,” Ricky says and without waiting for Cristiano’s reply, he reaches out his hand and places his palm on Cristiano’s chest, right over his heart.

Cristiano sucks in a startled breath, unprepared for the sensation that crashes over him as a refreshing wave. It’s like plunging into the sea on a summer morning when the sun is barely up and the sand on the beach is cold. Cristiano inhales deeply, the compelling urge of his nature is finally satisfied.

“Better, right?”

Cristiano jerks away. “What the fuck?” He smacks Ricky’s hand away. His breathing comes out ragged, his pupils are dilated. “What was that?”

Ricky ducks his head. “Sorry, sorry. It’s been a while. I’ll go gentle.” He reaches out to Cristiano again, but Cristiano recoils and Ricky lets his arm fall.

“What the hell?!”

“Cris,” Ricky starts but Cristiano doesn’t let him speak. He doesn’t need the confession, he knows all too well about humans with abilities like that.

“Did you project the first time we met?” Cristiano snarls. “Was that why I was so drawn to you? Because you’d fucking thrown your image around me to lure me in?”

“No, Cris, listen to me,” Ricky says, pleading. His face falls when Cristiano pays him no mind.

“Is that why you came back? Why are you so sure I’d take you back, after everything we’ve been through? Oh, poor lonely Cris, he’ll welcome me with his open arms,” Cristiano says, opening his arms. “And if not, I’ll simply whammy him like I did before?!”

“It’s not that, Cris. It would never be like that.”

“Of course not,” Cristiano snorts, derisive. “He is forgiving, unlike your wife. Oh, right, your ex-wife… I feel sick when I just look at you.”

“No,” Ricky says hotly, “don’t talk about things you know nothing about.”

“I know nothing about these things? That’s rich. I guess you don’t really know me anymore.”

Ricky sighs. “I knew what you were the first time I saw you. We didn’t know each other then.”

Cristiano’s hands are shaking again. He wishes Ricky had at least sought him out some other time, when he was feeling better, fresh from a swim, when he was strong enough to resist.

He crumples back on the bed, eyes on the ceiling. “Why are you really here, Ricky?” He asks, much quieter.

“Marcelo called me.”

“Of course he did,” Cristiano just sounds tired, even to his own ears. “When I met you. You touched me when we shook hands – was it all it took for you to do… whatever it is you do?”

“What?” Ricky says, voice raising. “No! It’s not just a touch. You need to know the person, understand them, to be in tune with their magic or it won’t work.”

“Really?” Cristiano whispers.

“Really. You need to be on the same wavelength, it’s not like I can just snap my fingers and make people do what I want. I can only draw from the potential that’s in someone. My level is low. Too low for other humans… I… I couldn’t feel her. She was very upset about it, thought I wasn’t trying hard enough. But it works in a system beyond my reasoning.”

“It’s instinctual,” Cristiano nods, understanding.

“Yes.”

“I’ve been taken by your play way before we met,” Cristiano admits. “I know there was no magic in that. It’s just hard to accept it. That it’s so easy for you, to just touch me and… It’s like you touch the soul.”

He doesn’t phrase the last sentence as a question and Ricky doesn’t answer to it. Instead, he bites his lip and says, “Are you saying my play is not magical?”

Cristiano can’t help the amused twitch of his lips.

“There is my favourite smile,” Ricky says, poking his index finger into Cristiano’s cheek, dragging the corner of his lips slightly upwards until Cristiano cracks up.

Ricky keeps smiling until Cristiano stops laughing.

“You knew what I was,” Cristiano says.

“I knew the moment I stepped close to you, yes,” Ricky confirms with a nod.

Cristiano closes his eyes. “And you never told me.”

“I kept waiting for _you_ to tell me. But you never opened to me, you never trusted me with the truth. I don’t know if you thought I couldn’t keep your secret or if you thought I’d leave when you told me or…” Ricky trails off.

Cristiano’s throat clenches when he recalls Ricky’s disappointed eyes that always stayed sad, no matter now intimate the moment between them was. 

“I thought you chose her over me.”

“It wasn’t like that. You didn’t… I kept waiting and you never…”

Cristiano realizes it hadn’t been just him who kept stretching their relationship past the breaking point. Ricky must have felt how strained it was between them as well but he stayed, waiting patiently, waiting futilely, only because he kept hoping Cristiano would open up one day and tell him what Ricky already knew.

“I couldn’t,” Cristiano says sadly. Then the implications hit him. “You knew all the time.” He’s up lightning quick, shoving at Ricky angrily. He feels sick – he’s kept it a secret form everyone, he hid the seal coat at a place no human could reach without knowing exactly where to look, and he lived in a happy delusion that no one would ever know about what he was. Ricky knew, he had always known and he could have told anyone, at any time. He still could tell anyone.

Cristiano shoves at him again but Ricky doesn’t budge, so Cristiano starts hitting him in rage.

“Cris,” Ricky breathes out, catching Cristiano’s hands in his own and stilling him. “I never told anyone. Not a living soul.”

Cristiano stops struggling in his grasp. “Oh.” Ricky could have told anyone and he didn’t, not even when Cristiano finally snapped and broke up with him, not when Cristiano refused to pick up Ricky’s calls, not when he cut Ricky off from his life in a desperate attempt to ease the pain in his own heart.

“You have to know I wouldn’t tell anyone.” Ricky releases Cristiano’s hands, shifting his hold to stroke his thumb over Cristiano’s clenched fists until Cristiano relaxes.

“I’m sorry,” Cristiano says.

“I will never tell, Cris. Never.”

Cristiano gulps around the lump in his throat. “I know.” He slowly wraps his fingers around Ricky’s right arm, just above the crook of his elbow.

Ricky smiles a beaming, carefree smile, like everything could be forgiven just like that, and he tugs Cristiano flush against him, resting his head on Cristiano’s shoulder.

Cristiano brings his arm up, cradling the nape of Ricky’s neck, enjoying the way Ricky folds down around him. Ricky always nuzzles to him like a kitten.

“Imiffdou,” Ricky mumbles against Cristiano’s shoulder.

“I missed you too,” Cristiano admits. With a laugh, he playfully shoves him aside, not before ruffling his hair.

Ricky sits up and his gaze falls on the glass Cristiano sat on the nightstand.

“It’s nothing,” Cristiano says.

Ricky reaches over and sniffs at the glass. His expression shifts, his smile becomes tight around the edges and something clouds the brightness of his eyes. He doesn’t comment, just dips his finger in and says, “Let me.”

“Ricky–”

“You’ve been away for too long.”

“Yes. I was, wasn’t I,” Cristiano mutters.

“Let me make this better. Once your head is clear again, we can talk. Please. It’s killing me to see you torturing yourself like this.”

Cristiano nods and watches as Ricky brings the glass over to him, pokes his finger in and then proceeds to bring it to Cristiano’s lips.

The wet tip of Ricky’s finger strokes the lower pad of his lips. The unique taste of the sea immediately takes over Cristiano’s senses. He lets out a feeble whine because water stored like this may keep its salinity but it’s not the same as dipping into the ocean. It’s bittersweet, every time, but it keeps him alive during the breaks when he can’t get out there and swim.

“Let me,” Ricky repeats, and this time it’s more loaded and Cristiano knows what it is Ricky’s asking.

“Okay.”

Ricky smiles, dips his fingers in the water and scoops some in his palm. Then he brings his hand over Cristiano’s chest, letting the water fall down in a drizzle. When his palm comes to rest against Cristiano’s chest, he is expecting the surge of excitement.

The image is near perfect. If he closed his eyes, it would be as he were at the sea, the stream around him, cradling him, protecting him. Cristiano doesn’t close his eyes. Instead, he keeps his gaze locked with Ricky’s and seeks out his lips with his own, thirsting for more than just the water.


End file.
